


December 7: Memories

by fearfully_beautifully_made



Series: December (Christmas) Challenge [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Bottom John Watson, December Fanfic Challenge, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Healing, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mentions Past Abuse, Overdue conversations, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Smut, Top Sherlock, haha sorry it’s late, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 13:39:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17426933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearfully_beautifully_made/pseuds/fearfully_beautifully_made
Summary: Rosie has a double ear infection and bronchitis. Her being sick conjures memories of Sherlock’s parents and John’s parents when they were little. Conversation and healing ensues, followed by soft sex.





	December 7: Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Hello darlings,
> 
> First, sorry this (and all of the remaining December works) are definitely late. There was a funeral, work, grad school, etc. and they just didn’t get edited and put up in time. I will probably be posting most of them this winter, anyway. 
> 
> Second, please heed the tag about past abuse. There’s nothing graphic, but John mentions an abusive home life. I don’t want to trigger anything. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are basically my love language. 💕

Any parent will tell you that there are few things worse than a sick toddler.

When Rosie is two, this is exactly the predicament John and Sherlock find themselves in. A trip to the pediatrician confirms John’s suspicion, double ear infection and bronchitis. Their normally happy, relatively easy going little girl, spends hours crying. 

About everything. 

There’s too much milk in her porridge, tears. Her bear is across the room from her and she doesn’t want to move to get it, more tears.

She cries because she’s tired. She cries when John tries to put her down to sleep. John puts her lunch in the microwave and she cries because the microwave ate it. 

And John’s personal favorite: she couldn’t fit all six of the crayons she was trying to use into her hand at once. This one earned a complete and total meltdown with screaming and wailing included. 

John’s patience is worn thin, his nerves are rubbed raw, and he’s pretty sure the next person to start weeping will be him. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, coddles her constantly. At the first sign of tears, he’s up, dropping whatever he was doing, and lifting her into his arms, holding her close while she wails in his ear, murmuring soft words of comfort and letting her drool and snot all over his shirt. 

It’s two in the morning and no one has slept more than three hours at a time in the past two days. John feels like his head is going to explode. 

Rosie starts crying again. 

There’s a large part of him that feels sorry for her. She is so miserable, so exhausted. Her ears are hurting her, she has a cough, and she must be as irritated as John feels. 

But there is another part of him that is just so done with the crying and the wailing. “Rosie, please,” he groans. He has her in his arms and starts walking her around the room, trying to bounce her and soothe her.

It’s a funny thing, but children know when the person holding them isn’t calm. And when children are upset, they don’t want to be soothed by someone who is not calm themselves. 

“Here,” an actually soothing voice behind him says. 

John turns to see that Sherlock is reaching out toward them.

“We need milk.”

“What?” John asks, thrown off by the direction of that statement. 

“Milk,” Sherlock prompts, reaching out for Rosie again. “Can you go to the store, please?”

“It’s two in the morning,” John says the first thing that pops into his mind in his utter disbelief.

“Yes, well, lucky thing Tesco’s is open 24 hours, then,” Sherlock replies.

“I can’t just leave her with you while she’s like this.”

“Of course you can. You know I can’t abide the tedium of the grocery store.”

“Are you sure?” John asks, feeling faintly guilty, she is his daughter after all. 

“Positive,” Sherlock replies before leaning in and catching his hands under her arms to lift her. “We’ll be just fine, won’t we, my little rosebud?”

She lets out a shaky sort of sob and buries her face in his shirt, seemingly anything but fine. 

“There we are, my darling,” Sherlock says softly, rubbing her back even as she hiccup-coughs phlegm onto him. He grimaces, but pats her back and murmurs comfortingly, “I bet that feels better, hmm?”

He looks up at John, where John is just standing, practically too exhausted to move. 

“Go,” he says, waving a graceful hand. “I’ll have her down by the time you get back. It’s almost time for her next dose of medicine and then she’ll have an easier time sleeping.” He presses his lips against her forehead, “and it feels like her fever’s breaking. She might sleep longer than three hours, if we’re very lucky.” He rocks his body with her, all but waltzing around the room as he hums softly to her. “Go on, love,” he says. 

With a shaky sigh, John does as Sherlock tells him. He puts on his jacket and heads to Tesco to buy some bloody milk. 

As soon as he closes the front door behind him, it’s like he can breathe again. He leans against the door for a moment and absorbs the sound of silence. Well, relative silence, there’s still white noise from traffic out here, but it's a world away from the sounds indoors. He lets out a sigh of relief and starts his walk to the store.

It’s then, when he physically feels his blood pressure drop, that he realizes why Sherlock sent him to the store. He’s torn between feeling grateful to Sherlock and disgusted with himself.

John doesn’t dawdle. He recognizes that this is a gift from Sherlock and he doesn’t take advantage of his kindness. When he gets back and opens the door to the flat, he holds his breath, bracing himself for the inevitable crying. 

He doesn’t hear anything. 

He treads up the stairs quietly, skipping the squeaky step altogether and heading into their flat. Sherlock’s sitting in his chair, head lolling back on his shoulders in obvious weariness but Rosie is nowhere to be seen. 

“She’s in her crib upstairs,” Sherlock supplies, as though he can hear his thoughts. “Her fever broke, I’m hoping we’ll get a solid six hours now.”

“Thank God for that,” he says as he puts the milk away. 

Sherlock stands and they silently head back to their room. They both simply strip out of their clothes down to their pants and climb into bed, too exhausted to put on pyjamas. 

“That was excruciating,” John says. 

Sherlock groans in agreement, “Yes.”

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” he says truthfully and the thought of how hopelessly incompetent he would be alone positively terrifies him. “How are you so good with her? Where’d you learn to manage that?” John asks, turning his head to look at the man lying next to him. 

Sherlock yawns, “Dunno,” he says. “S’pose it’s just something I liked when I was young.”

“What was?”

Sherlock turns his head to look at John, “Oh you know,” he says with a shrug. “I just liked to be cuddled when I was little. Especially when I was sick. My parents both loved to coddle me, but my father especially. Whenever I was sick he would stay up with me. He’d hold me constantly, stroke my hair, rub my back. Anything that I needed to help me feel better. And it helped,” he shrugged, “or at least I imagined it did.”

“That must've been nice,” John says, imagining little Sherlock, stroppy and sick, being snuggled and loved. 

“Yeah,” he replies, “just normal parent stuff.”

John hums at that. 

“I’m sure your parents had their own things that they did when you were sick to make you feel better.”

John turns his head away from Sherlock, looking up at the ceiling, not wanting the other man to read the truth in his eyes. “Sure,” he grunts with as much sincerity as he can muster. 

There’s a long pause that feels terribly tense, “They didn’t, did they?” Sherlock asks. 

“Hmm?” John hums, playing dumb and hoping Sherlock will drop it. “Didn’t what?”

“They didn’t hold your hand, or stroke your hair. They didn’t cuddle you, or stay up with you when you were sick.”

John shrugs, “Maybe when I was Rosie’s age, I don’t remember,” he says. Because it's almost the truth and the things he does remember, he wishes he didn’t, but can never seem to manage to forget them. All he can remember when he was sick is feeling alone and achy, tired and sore, with an ache in the pit of his belly that had nothing to do with being sick. 

Sherlock rolls onto his side and brushes his fingers through John’s fringe. “I’m sorry.”

“Nah,” John says, glancing at him then, “don’t be. It was ages ago.” He coughs and looks back up at the ceiling in their room, shifting slightly. “You don’t want to talk about bad childhood memories, anyway. At least my sister didn’t murder my best friend,” he says lamely. 

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, voice achingly tender.

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I just wish I could...” Sherlock trails off and is silent long enough that John thinks he's dropped it, “I hate them.”

“Who?” John asks, glancing over at the other man once more. 

“Your parents.”

“It’s not worth it,” John says and it’s easy to be sincere about this. “Truly. It’s not worth the energy.”

“But you were just a child. A child who they were supposed to love,” he says indignantly. “A child they were meant to take care of.”

“I had Harry,” he says softly. “And she had me.”

Sherlock strokes John’s hair, “Still. Children are precious.”

“It’s fine, all in the past. And honestly, that probably fucked me up less than my teenage years,” John clicks his jaw shut. Why had he said that?

Sherlock’s hand slows its soothing motions for a moment before he starts up again. “Why?” he asks softly. 

“My mum always said that my father ‘wasn’t an easy man.’” John closes his eyes against the memories that want to beat him down and make him feel small and ashamed. 

Sherlock is a quiet, calming presence beside him. He doesn’t make a sound, just gently combs John’s hair with his fingers. 

“Mean bastard is what he was,” John says, his jaw feeling too tight. He swallows, “He was bigotry and hatred, and every hateful emotion you can think of.”

His eyes cut over to Sherlock as he nods but remains silent. He’s not going to deduce, not going to start talking, John realizes; he’s listening. Just listening. He looks away, feeling a little overwhelmed.

“He was always horrible,” John says softly.  “And my mum,” he swallows, fighting back whatever’s choking him. “Well, she was always drunk. She couldn’t take it, couldn’t live with that but she didn’t have any other options. Not really.”

He’s pauses, stuck in the memories that have haunted him the better part of his life. “They were alcoholics, both of them. Addicts searching for a high they couldn’t ever-” he glances at Sherlock, then, “Sorry-“

“No,” Sherlock says, “It’s fine. Don’t be sorry.”

John nods and goes back to staring at the ceiling, he’s quiet for a long moment. He says the next thing that pops into his head, “There’s something I learned about in Uni when I was working on my med degree.” He pauses to laugh, “they tell you not to self diagnose; you’re wrong most of the time anyway. But there’s this phenomenon called ‘Sensation seeking.’ It’s when a person desires to have new and risky things happen to them. People seek out the kick of adrenaline and dopamine that happens when you do something new and potentially dangerous. It’s a side effect of childhood trauma.” 

Even to his own ears, he sounds detached and like he’s talking about something that has nothing to do with him; just some medical fact that has no bearing on his life.  “You said dangerous and there I was,” John murmurs parroting the words Sherlock had said to him that first night to convince him to go and hunt down a serial killer. 

“John,” Sherlock starts, voice cracking and helpless. 

“It’s fine,” John says, voice calm and impassive. “No need to be sorry. It’s who we are,” he says and it feels a bit like the brokenness is winning, but he can’t find it in himself to care. 

“We?” Sherlock asks.

“Harry and me,” John says, then he adds, “You, too, in a way I suppose. But I meant Harry and me, even though it manifested in different ways. For me, it meant war, becoming a surgeon, chasing after a madman to catch killers and criminals, marrying a sociopath.” He can’t stop the helpless, inappropriate laugh that bubbles out of his mouth. 

Sherlock doesn’t laugh with him, doesn’t do anything but continue running his fingers gently through John’s hair. 

His laugh peters off after a moment and he clears his throat. “No, for Harry, it was different. Harry’s fearless. Harry had a fucking death wish.”

“In what way?” Sherlock asks softly, his thumb trails lightly over the wrinkle on John’s forehead, which John is sure is currently quite prominent from his scowling. 

“Harry’s two years older than me,” John says, “Did you know that?”

“I knew she was older,” he replies.

John nods, “There was a Christmas, when Harry was seventeen, when she asked if she could bring someone to Christmas Eve at our house. A girl she’d brought over a dozen times. Clara.”

“Ah,” Sherlock breathes softly. 

“Your brother told me once that bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, I’m not sure which she was then. She’d mentioned being gay before,” John says, “My dad always shouted at her when she said it. ‘You’re not gay!’ Over and over. Our house would erupt in screaming, so much shouting and violence,” he spat.

“But when she came home on Christmas Eve with Clara and told us flat out that they were in love...” he trails off, unwilling and unable to describe it. “I’d never seen anything like it.” John closes his eyes against the memories. “He kicked her out of the house that night and told her to never come back.”

Gentle fingers caress his cheek, spreading wetness under his eyes and John realizes he’s crying. 

“I cried that night too,” he confesses. “I hadn’t cried in years, but I went up to my room and cried and hated him, hated them, for what happened to Harry. For the injustice. For myself.” 

He looks over at Sherlock then, Sherlock with his eyes full of hurt and full of compassion. 

“I was a coward,” he says. “I knew then what I was. T hat I was bisexual, but I didn’t say anything. Didn’t defend her.”

“You were a child,” Sherlock says. 

“I was fifteen and old enough to know that what he was doing was wrong,” he spits. 

“John,” he replies softly, “She couldn’t have expected that of you.”

“She didn’t. But I should have just the same.” He shakes his head, “It was really hard for them, you know? For Harry and Clara.”

“I’m sure it was.”

“Then I came home from the fucking war and went to stay with her and saw what she was doing to Clara. She was just like him.” John covers his face with his hands. “And I knew that if Harry could be like him, so could I. I was completely terrified when you told Mary she was pregnant. So afraid that I’ll be just like him.”

“You’re not,” Sherlock says fiercely. “John, you’re not.”

He uncovers his face, tears and all, “Aren’t I though? What kind of a father needs a break from his child crying when she’s sick?” He sits up, “And I’ve beaten the living hell out of you.” He feels nauseous. 

“It’s not the same,” Sherlock reiterates. 

“It’s exactly the fucking same.” He shakes his head, “it’s why I promised when we first got together,” he swallows and stops, his hands are shaking, he pushes out a breath trying to relieve the pressure in his chest. “I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything,” the other man says, his hand rubbing soothingly along John’s spine. 

“If I ever do anything like that again, promise me, you take Rosie and you leave.”

“John-”

“Promise me,” he interupts, his voice cracking with desperation. “You walk out and you never look back.”

“I’m never leaving you,” he says. 

“You have to keep her safe. No matter what. I want her to grow up happy, and safe, and loved.” John looks over at him, “I want her cuddled when she’s sick. I never want her to doubt who she is and what she is meant for. She’s amazing, she’ll be beautiful and brilliant, she deserves better than the likes of me if I turn into my dad. Promise me.”

“Fine, I promise,” he replies. “But it’s not going to happen, darling. Never.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Sherlock moves to kneel in front of John, “Because you are a good man, John Watson. Because you love your daughter and she is precious to you.” Sherlock takes his hands in his own, “because you are the best thing that has ever happened to me and you have saved my life in every way. Your father only took, but you’ve given me everything. You are the single most extraordinary man I’ve ever known.”

John swallows and looks down at his hands, they’re still shaking and blurry from the tears clouding his eyes. 

“I know you won’t ever become your father because you are just the opposite of him.” Sherlock cups John’s face in his hands, “When Rosie cries you pick her up and comfort her. Even you don’t want to, even when you’re exhausted; you adore her. You are not your father because you care for me, after all I have done to you. After all I’ve put you through, you still love me. I know because you work at this, at us.”

“Of course I work at this,” John splutters, “because I have to. Because I will never in a thousand years measure up to the man you or Rosie deserve.”

“You’re wrong,” Sherlock says softly. “You are,” he says when John starts to protest. “You are not your father, John.”

Tears slip from the corners of his eyes and his breath hitches. 

“You’re not,” Sherlock says again, voice unbearably tender. “You are the kindest, wisest, most human human-being I have ever known and I am so in love with you.”

“I love you, too,” John whispers back, voice hoarse. 

Sherlock cups his cheek in his palm and brushes his thumb along John’s cheekbone.

John leans forward and presses their lips together. Sherlock hums softly into the kiss and molds his lips to John’s. John shudders at his tenderness, at the blatant love bleeding through the kiss. 

When they draw apart John opens his eyes, “Make love to me,” he whispers.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asks, stroking his hands soothingly up and down John’s arms. 

“You,” John breathes, and it is the most honest word he has ever uttered. 

“You have me,” Sherlock assures, but he seems to understand what John means. “Let me take care of you,” Sherlock whispers.

John’s eyes fill with tears and he is powerless against them as he nods. 

Sherlock kisses him again and his hands are stroking over John’s back as he guides him to lay down. 

Through blurry eyes, he watches as Sherlock pulls back to pull off his own pants. His fingers reach out for John, brushing lightly over his abdomen and hips before reaching the waistband of his pants and tugging them down. John squirms to help divest himself of them.

Sherlock trails his fingers over John’s thighs. “Just relax,” he murmurs. “Just let go, I’ll take care of you,” he promises again.

Their eyes meet and John realizes that Sherlock doesn’t just mean right now, he means always. He doesn’t just mean in their bedroom, he means everywhere.

“Just like you take care of me,” Sherlock whispers. “Let me do that for you.” And he realizes suddenly that this is something Sherlock’s always wanted. Sherlock has always wanted to take care of him, always wanted to treat him as though he was something precious and fragile, always wanted to love every last broken and jagged piece of him. 

Tears slip from the corners of John’s eyes and a sob catches in his throat. 

Sherlock covers him with his body and presses kisses to his cheeks. “You’ve been so brave,” he says. “So strong and sure.” Sherlock brushes his lips over John’s cheek just in front of his ear. “It’s alright. Just let go now, I’ve got you.”

John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and nods into his shoulder. 

Sherlock’s hands stroke tenderly over John’s body, mapping him out and taking his time to touch him, as though the landscape of John’s body matters. John’s eyes drift closed at the contact and tension starts leaking out of his body. Slowly, so slowly, the worries and fears that were in his mind diminish as Sherlock touches and kisses him until there is only that. Until there is only the knowledge of being seen and known through and through, of being loved and accepted. 

“You’re perfect,” Sherlock whispers in his ear. And usually it’s John who whispers encouragements and endearments to Sherlock, but Sherlock continues. “You are so lovely, my darling,” he soothes. “You are my sun, and my moon, and all of the stars in the sky.” He tucks his nose into John’s neck and plants his lips to John’s shoulder. “You are the light that guides my way and holds me fast. I’d be lost and adrift without you.”

“Sherlock,” John whispers, overwhelmed by his words and his sincerity. 

“I love you,” Sherlock murmurs into his skin. “I’ve never loved anyone or anything the way I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Sherlock reaches over into their nightstand and John can hear him fumbling around for the lube. A moment later, Sherlock’s fingers are softly, reverently brushing over his skin. He slicks the fingers of his right hand and John gasps in surprise when he wraps his fist around his half hard cock. 

“John,” Sherlock groans, as though John was stroking him instead of the other way around. “You feel exquisite.”

Before he can reply, Sherlock’s lips cover his again as his hand slowly, skillfully works him to full hardness. 

He’s breathless by the time Sherlock stops. “Sherlock, please,” he murmurs. 

The other man releases his hold on his cock and lets his hand drift down, pausing to caress John’s balls before slipping lower still to massage his perineum for a moment. John arches, his hands clench against Sherlock’s shoulders. 

Sherlock’s fingers trail lower still, brushing softly against his entrance. Trailing back and forth over it, making John shudder. “Touch me.”

Sherlock kisses him again, occupying John’s mouth as he coats his fingers with lube and carefully presses one inside of John’s body. 

His breath catches in his throat and it feels like they’ve never done this before. “Sherlock,” he breathes in wonder. 

“I see you,” Sherlock whispers. And the words should sound strange, they should be out of place, but they aren’t. They’re true and right, and John’s never felt anything like this. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs. “You are a wonder, John Watson.”

He’s at a loss for words as the other man works his finger in and out of his body. He adds another and John draws his knees up and plants his feet on the bed, pressings his hips down on the two fingers moving inside of him. “Yes,” he says. “Like that. Don’t stop.”

Sherlock presses his lips to John’s forehead and it’s a strangely intimate gesture. “Never,” he whispers. 

John trails his fingers up Sherlock’s neck and into his hair. He strokes through the thick curls, fingers brushing his scalp. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“And I you, John Watson,” comes the reply. He slips a third finger in, trailing his fingers over John’s prostate. 

“That’s so good, sweetheart.”

Sherlock hums softly at him and continues, stroking in and out, stretching and spreading his fingers. They’re quiet save the sounds of their breathing and their lips moving together.

“I’m ready,” John tells him eventually, when he doesn’t think he can wait a moment longer. 

He brushes his lips over John’s forehead again and John shudders in response. He pulls his fingers out and slicks up his cock before pressing the head to John’s entrance. 

“Yes,” John groans. 

“You feel like perfection,” Sherlock murmurs as he slowly presses inside of John. 

“You too,” he says, brushing his thumb along Sherlock’s cheek and drawing their lips together. 

Once Sherlock’s fully seated he leans back to look at John, “Alright?” 

“Better than,” John replies. He rubs his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders and arms, “Are you? You’re shaking.” 

 

Sherlock nods. “You’re incredible, John Watson,” he breathes. “You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever known and I ache to know everything about you.” He presses his forehead to John’s. 

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know how to respond to the epiphany of Sherlock’s patience, to the knowledge that Sherlock has been waiting for John to open up to him for years. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

“What for?” 

“Sticking around,” he tilts his chin to press their lips together. 

“Always,” Sherlock replies seriously. 

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Sherlock?” John says. When Sherlock hums in response, John says, “Move.”

Sherlock nods against John’s forehead and slowly begins rolling his hips. 

John wraps his legs around the other man’s waist and they move in tandem, their bodies syncing up and slotting together as though this is what they’d been created to do. 

It’s slow and awe filled, the way they move and touch one another. It’s like the very essence of their beings are entwined with one another and John’s never experienced intimacy like this. “I love you,” he murmurs. “So much, Sherlock.”

“I love you, too,” the other man replies and he angles slightly differently until his cock is nudging at John’s prostate. 

“Yes,” John moans, “Right there, love. That’s perfect.”

Sherlock slots his fingers through John’s, clasping their hands together. 

“Don’t stop,” John whispers, and his chest feels full to bursting. 

“I won’t,” Sherlock promises. “I’ve got you.”

Sherlock kisses him and molds their bodies together, grinding John’s cock against his belly and John lets go. 

With a soft cry, he’s over the edge, pressing impossibly closer to his lover. Sherlock shudders and he’s coming undone above John, rolling his hips a few more times and pressing fully inside of John before he stills. 

Sherlock buries his face in John’s neck and John turns his head to press kisses to his neck and shoulder. “You're incredible,” John murmurs. “That was incredible.”

Sherlock nods and John feels his shaky exhale against his shoulder. John untangles their fingers so he can stroke his fingertips along the musculature of Sherlock’s back. 

They stay like that for a long time, ensconced in one another’s warmth and affection, a peaceful bubble of their own making. 

“It scares me sometimes,” Sherlock whispers. 

“What does?” John asks, feeling mildly concerned because there was nothing about what they’d just experienced that scared him. 

“How much I love you,” the other man confesses. “It’s overwhelming sometimes,” he pauses and swallows, “The desire to touch you, to talk to you, to possess you, to  _ know _ you.” He feels Sherlock exhale a shuddering breath, “it feels like I could destroy you.”

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, stroking soothingly along the other man’s spine. 

Sherlock pulls back and his eyes pierce straight through John, “I’m terrified of crushing you. Of holding you too tightly. Of wanting too much from you.” 

“Sherlock,” John says again, more firmly this time, trying to pull the other man out of his mind and back to reality. “You’re not,” he says. “I know you, too,” he adds with a soft smile. “You’ve always been like that, you know. It’s why I had such a hard time keeping a girlfriend,” he says with a laugh. “I don’t mind.” 

“Really?” Sherlock asked. 

“Of course,” he says with a smile. “I like it. I like being known by you. Always have. Since that very first day. Since the words ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ slipped from you lips.” he smiles at the memory and Sherlock smiles back. “I like being seen, Sherlock,” he says softly. 

“I love you.”

“I love you,” he replies. Sherlock yawns and John nods, “Yes, definitely time for us to sleep.”

“You’re right,” he says as he rolls off of John. “Let me grab a flannel, then we can sleep.”

“There are baby wipes in the drawer of the nightstand,” John says. “Just use one of those.”

“Why are they in there?” he asks, even as he opens the nightstand to pull one out. 

“I had her in here earlier, trying to get her to nap while you were working on that experiment. She needed a change and I didn’t want to go upstairs so I grabbed some stuff from the travel bag.” He waves a hand vaguely, “too lazy to put everything away.”

Sherlock hums at him, wiping both of them off. “Well you’ve earned a bit of laziness.” He bins the baby wipe and John opens his arm so Sherlock can cuddle into his side with his head on his shoulder. 

He kisses Sherlock’s forehead, “Thank you,” he says again.

“For what?” Sherlock mumbles sleepily. 

“Everything.”


End file.
